


Sherlock Edition

by The_Raconteur_24601



Series: Zepheera-Vision [4]
Category: Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV), The Borrowers - All Media Types
Genre: G/T, TINY - Freeform, giant, giant tiny - Freeform, sherlock crossover, sherlock gt, the borrowers crossover
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-07 10:01:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16851949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Raconteur_24601/pseuds/The_Raconteur_24601
Summary: A bunch of Zepheera-Visions based on Sherlock (BBC) GIFs.*I do not own the GIFs used! They are used for illustrative and inspirational purposes, and I claim no ownership over them





	1. A Hand Afoot

After well over a year of traveling together, defeating monsters and rescuing alien civilizations, the Doctor and Zepheera decided to take it easy for a day. Nothing fancy, just a few hours spent in 21st century London, eating chips and seeing the sights.

Then a kid on a skateboard came speeding past the Doctor while he wasn’t paying attention and clipped him, knocking the Time Lord flat on is back in the middle of the sidewalk.

Zepheera flew off the Doctor’s shoulder. Ordinarily she would be hanging out near the edge of one of his pockets with this many people around, or at the very least under his collar, but she wanted a proper view of the city she’d spent so many years hiding underneath. So she sat tucked against his neck with a small perception filter attached to a TARDIS key in her lap. But after the fall, two things became apparent once she’d come out of her daze. One: The key was nowhere in sight, making her perfectly visible to anybody who bothered to look down. More importantly, two: she’d been thrown several feet away from the Doctor.

She tried to hurry back to him, but a few kind souls in the vicinity flocked to his side to offer help. That meant dozens of feet crashing down around her, some coming within inches and  _centimeters_  of crushing her. Instinct kicked in and she ran; logic inserted itself to insist that she’d need to get to safety first, then she could reunite with the Doctor.

Meanwhile, pedestrian feet were corralling Zepheera further away from her giant friend.

By the time she reached relative safety against the wall of a building, she’d lost track of her Time Lord. She could hear him calling, but it was muffled in the layers upon layers of people between them and the incessant rumble of footsteps. Zepheera was forced to climb rough brick wall behind her in search of higher ground. She was all too aware of the enormous risk she was taking, but at the moment she didn’t care about being seen as long as she could find the Doctor.

But when she reached a windowsill to look out from and she immediately met a humongous someone’s icy-blue gaze, she suddenly cared a lot.

Zepheera’s heart pounded, threatening to climb straight out of her throat.

This was no dumbstruck human she was facing. No, that would give her an opportunity to dash away. His countenance was perfectly calm with a touch of contemplation, his eyes cold and calculating. He wasn’t just staring at Zepheera, he was  _studying_  her. Memories of that same look from scientists peppered over the course of her long life came clawing to the forefront of her mind, and she had to actively push past them. She needed to find a way out of this, escape the man’s reach somehow and find the Doctor fast.

Before she could even glance away from him, his hand was upon her. His palm filled her vision and his fingers, each almost as long as her entire body, were curling over her head. In a split second, she was snatched up in a loose fist, her four-and-a-half-inch-tall body squished into a ball.

Humans were  _fast_ , she lamented belatedly.

Zepheera felt the movement as the hand was lowered and what little light that peeked in through the cracks between the fingers disappeared. With no warning, the pressure around her loosened and she dropped into a dark pocket. She had no time to protest; the man was immediately on the move.

He’d placed her into the outside pocket of his wool coat and it flapped with each and every step the man took, making it nearly impossible for Zepheera to climb out. To avoid hurting herself and lessen the motion sickness, she tucked herself into a corner and breathed as deeply as she could in the cramped, stuffy space. Panic threatened to overcome her, but she refused to let it. She would need a clear mind in order to find the Doctor after she got out of this.


	2. Doctor y Doctor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short, non-ZV story to show what Ten and John are up to.

John Watson didn’t stop to think. The fact that he and Sherlock were already late to meet Lestrade at a fresh, new, and conveniently nearby crime scene completely left his mind. He saw a man get blindsided by some punk kid on a skateboard and fall hard on the ground while the assailant rode on. John immediately rushed to his side.

He shoved his way through the small crowd gathering to gawk at the man with morbid curiosity. It was easy to see why; on top of the spectacle, the man was rather odd-looking in general. Mid-thirties, early forties but with a forward-sweeping spike to his hair, a brown pinstriped suit paired with white Converse of all things, and a long, tan overcoat to put it all together. It was a wonder how this strange person had escaped the skater’s notice. Luckily the chap didn’t seem too badly hurt, but he was groaning something terrible and clutching his head.

“Steady on, mate. I’m a doctor, and you’ve been hit hard.” John spoke evenly and kindly as he knelt by the man and moved his hands away from his face so he could check for signs of concussion. “Do you remember what happened?”

The chocolate-brown eye John was holding open zeroed in on him, and the brow above it furrowed. Then his hand shot to his right shoulder and scrambled around, as though he were looking for something. He started to sit up quickly, but John stopped him with a hand to the chest.

“No, no, don’t get up too fast–”

“Get off!”

The man shoved John roughly away, knocking him on his arse. Then he got on his hands and knees, calling out some strange word that John didn’t recognize. It almost sounded like a rejected spell from Harry Potter.

Regardless, John stood and made one last attempt to calm the man down.

“Sir, you need medical attention,” John insisted.

The man shook off the hand John laid on his shoulder, then jumped up to his full height. John blinked as the man loomed over him, despite only being about half a foot taller than him. His eyes, while clear, were crazed and deadly.

“I don’t need a doctor. I  _am_ the Doctor. Now go. Away.”

John stared as the man went back to searching the ground. By then the thin crowd had been scared off by the man’s apparent madness. “Alright, man, suit yourself,” the doctor muttered as he backed off. Clearly the matter was out of his hands, and he was on his way to see Lestrade anyhow. Perhaps he could tip the detective inspector off, and send someone over to deal with the situation.

“Well, I tried,” sighed John as he approached Sherlock, who had waited for him. “Let’s go, I guess.”

“Actually, John, you go on ahead,” said Sherlock.

John frowned. “But Lestrade–”

“Something’s come up. Besides, I highly doubt he has anything you can’t handle on your own. Meet back at the flat.”

And that was it. Sherlock walked off without another word, leaving John confused and more than a little annoyed.


	3. Bit Hot

Zepheera gasped sharply as the fist around her opened and exposed her to fresh air for the first time in five minutes. She scrambled away from the giant unknown hand, tripping over the edge of a saucer. She was wedged awkwardly between the lip of the small plate and the cold porcelain curve of the cup, but still she maintained eye contact with her captor.

His lips pursed as he observed her behavior, then reached toward her again. She threw her hands up in futile defense, but they weren’t needed. Rather than grabbing her, those long fingers curled around the handle of the teacup and lifted it away. Zepheera fell back in its absence, catching herself on her elbows as she watched the man sidestep far enough away that he no longer filled her vision, but he could easily glance over to check on her.

Zepheera stood and seized the opportunity to take in her surroundings. There was a large coffee maker to her right and some other machine she didn’t recognize to her left. She was on the kitchen counter in the human’s small flat. The dining table across from her was filled with odd instruments and glass containers that sent an ominous chill down her spine.

She had a bad feeling about this human.

Another hand approaching broke Zepheera out of her thoughts, and she did her best to not flinch. Again it didn’t touch her, only hovered expectantly nearby. She glanced up at the man’s face and realized that he wanted the saucer. As she hopped off and pressed her back against the wall, she wondered about this sudden concern of his for her consent. He had _kidnapped_  her, after all.

He dragged the saucer about an inch closer to himself and carefully set the filled teacup onto it. Automatically, he popped two blocks of sugar into it and began stirring. After a moment, he glanced at Zepheera again and frowned to himself. He opened a drawer out of her sight and rummaged through it. Then he slid the cup and saucer toward Zepheera, not-so-surreptitiously placing a few items next to it.

She hesitated before peeling herself from the wall. The cup was now filled with what looked like tea, and by her feet lay a package of creamer, a paper clip, a length of string, a coin, and a sizeable torn-off corner of tinfoil. Her violet eyes flicked up to suspiciously meet the icy blues staring down at her. Noting her trepidation, the man rolled his eyes and picked up the teacup, taking a small sip for himself.

“Good for the nerves,” he muttered, his deep baritone rolling over Zepheera like thunder. “And definitely  _not_  poisoned. How dull would that be.”

With that, he replaced the teacup and observed her closely to gauge Zepheera’s reaction. She wondered if he thought she could even understand him; clearly he was testing her intelligence and civility, if the materials he gave her were any indication.  As much as it sickened her to play into this game of his, she was quite thirsty. The salt from the chips she’d eaten with the Doctor had really dried her out.

The thought of the Doctor drove her to step forward at last. She needed to get back to him by any means necessary, and if that meant playing along for a while…

She picked up the tinfoil, tearing off the excess. She didn’t need much to mold into a makeshift cup. Once that was done and she’d checked it for weak spots, she went straight to the tea. She inspected it for a moment, inhaling its fumes. Earl gray. Not her favorite but tolerable enough, especially with a little sugar. She leaned down with her foil cup to retrieve some.

“Bit hot,” said the man under his breath, giving Zepheera pause. Indeed, warmth wafted up from the liquid. It wasn’t steaming, but it was as hot as could be expected on such short notice. Hot enough to sting, that was for sure. Perhaps the kettle had still been lukewarm from that morning.

Zepheera carefully lowered her cup into the drink, ignoring the man as he observed her reaction to his warning. Despite how much she wanted to dunk her whole hand in and give him something to observe, she knew that having him know about her healing ability would be counter-productive. His curiosity would only grow. So she settled on a half-filled cup and took a measured sip.

_For the Doctor._

* * *


	4. Watson

“What. Are. You?”

Zepheera narrowed her eyes at her captor and took a long sip of tea, setting her tinfoil cup pointedly on the small coin she was using as a saucer. She sat to lean back on the cold tile of the kitchen wall and crossed her arms, steadily meeting the gaze of the man leaning on the counter to loom over her. She’d lost count of how many times he’d asked that question in the last five minutes, or asked something similar, but she stubbornly refused to speak until he talked to her like an equal.

Clearly he wasn’t catching the hint. The longer she kept quiet, the more determined he seemed. His frown deepened and he let out a crisp sigh, unintentionally billowing Zepheera’s short dark hair with his breath. Then he reached behind him and dragged over a chair to sit across from her, slouching to achieve an angle somewhat closer to the four-and-a-half inch tall woman’s eye level.

“You’re not clever for remaining silent, you know,” he pronounced emphatically, his tone dangerously quiet. “It’s obvious you understand me and that you’re intelligent enough to have at least  _some_  form of communication with which to express thought and response. Even if that’s not English, even if you’re a  _mute_ , I demand you to tell me what you are.”

Zepheera quirked an eyebrow at him, but didn’t otherwise move a muscle. She was hardly in a position to bend to his threats now, he’d have hurt her already if that was his plan for getting the information from her. As if to prove her point, he huffed again and leaned back in the chair, crossing his own arms to mirror his miniature captive. The tiniest smirk tugged at her lips as she smugly lifted her cup for another sip.

Before it could reach her mouth, a sound echoed from downstairs, one that sent Zepheera’s instincts running high. The main door of the flat opened and closed, and the stairs began to creak with the weight of the approaching human.

“Sherlock!”

This voice was all Zepheera had to go by to determine the temperament of the human drawing near. It was a man, his tone kind but more than a little annoyed. That was understandable since, given the brief glance he spared to the kitchen entrance, her captor knew this man.

She took this moment of distraction to make her move. Tossing her cup aside, she shot to her feet and took off for the side of the counter closest to the door, slipping behind every instrument she could until she reached the edge.

“HELP! I’VE BEEN KIDNAPPED BY A MADMAN–!” she shrieked, cupping her hands into a megaphone to help her small voice carry, but a pale hand wrapping around her cut her off. Her head, shoulders, and arms were free of the measured grip surrounding the rest of her, lifting her away from the ground.

“What–who is that??” Concern filled the man’s voice as he hurried up the stairs and rounded the corner. Zepheera’s captor, Sherlock, froze halfway through lifting her to eye level when the new man came into view.

“What the hell’s going…” The newcomer trailed off when he noticed what Sherlock had in his grip, and he stopped to stare. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing, it had to be a trick. But  _that_  notion went flying out the door when the little being spoke.

“Please, I haven’t done anything wrong!” she implored, relying on the man’s pity much to her distaste.

“Oh, don’t play innocent,” Sherlock spat, finally losing  patience and bringing her up to his eyes. “I  _knew_  you could speak, but you  _had_  to play your games–!”

“Sherlock, that’s enough!”

The borrower and the human turned to stare at the other man. His look had hardened, trained only on Sherlock.

“John,” said Sherlock steadily. “You don’t understand–”

“Sod that!” shot back the blond. “I’m a doctor, you don’t think I understand how incredibly  _impossible_  she is? Believe me, I get it. And what I also get is that she is clearly a sentient person, and you should  _not_  be handling her that way.”

A tense silence hung in the air between the humans, and Zepheera held her breath as her fate was decided for her.

“What would you have me do then, John?” Sherlock asked quietly, his voice more subdued than his expression.

John sighed, possibly in relief. “Put her down. Let me see if I can have a look at her, make sure she’s not hurt.”

With reluctance, Sherlock lowered her back to the counter, grumpily stomping off to the far corner of the kitchen.

Newly freed, Zepheera looked up at John. Now she was right back where she started, though hopefully in hands that were more aware of her, concerned for her.

“Th-thank you,” she stammered, nodding gratefully up at John.

The human’s mouth twitched briefly, still unsure of what to make of this situation. “Ah. Don’t mention it.”

* * *

 

“I’m fine,” Zepheera insisted.

John raised an eyebrow at her, kneeling by the kitchen counter for a closer look at the tiny woman. “Are you sure? No offense, but if Sherlock wasn’t careful, he could have easily hurt you–”

“I  _was_  careful!” Sherlock contended, still pouting in the corner while trying not to seem like it. John rolled his eyes, but looked back at Zepheera for confirmation.

Zepheera sighed. If she  _had_  been hurt by Sherlock, even just slightly bruised, any damage done would have healed by now. But she dared not tell John that, a medical man who had already proclaimed that she was an impossibility.

“Look, I’m okay, really. See?” She prodded at her ribs, which had been the most vulnerable in Sherlock’s grip, and moved on to the rest of her undamaged limbs. “No bruised or broken ribs, arms and legs intact, joints unstrained. I’m fit as a fiddle. No need for…”

She trailed off and gestured vaguely to the human’s hands, hovering nearby in preparation to help. John looked down at them, realizing how large they looked to her, and self-consciously pulled them back to his middle. “Right. Sorry…”

Zepheera wrung her hands, glancing between John and Sherlock. “So. You’re a doctor?” she asked John.  _Of all the cruel coincidences in the universe_ …

John blinked at her question. “Uh, yeah. Yes, I am Doctor John Watson.”

She regretted asking as her heart ached, desperate once again to get back to her own Doctor. And while she thought this Watson chap would probably help her if she asked, she still advised herself against jumping into that too quickly. The look in his eyes told her that he was just as curious as Sherlock. He just hid it better.

“I’m Zepheera,” she replied.

A whole new level of awe leaked through in John’s expression, and he stared at her for a moment as his perception of reality was twisted. Somehow, putting a name to the impossibly tiny person made her all too real. He stood with a sharp intake of breath and wandered away from her, toward the living room. He paced back and forth for a bit, running his hands down his face and scratching the back of his head, until his gaze fell back on Zepheera who was staring up at him with concern.

“Are  _you_  okay?” she asked at length.

John froze, the shock hitting him all over again. Then he chuckled, forcing a smile as he swung his arms back and forth to release some of the confused tension in his shoulders.

“Just trying not to lose my mind,” he admitted, glancing at Sherlock for some level of sanity.

Now  _there_  was a troubling thought.


	5. How Very Clever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unfinished ZV that i'll probably get to eventually, but life happened before I could finish.

“Why on Earth did you bring her here, Sherlock?”

“Where was I  _supposed_  to bring her, St. Bart’s? Parade her around, introduce her to Molly and shove her under a microscope? Dull. Messy. No, I needed a look for myself, in private.”

“No, I mean, why did you bring her anywhere at  _all_?”

“Because she makes no sense!”

“She’s a person, she’s not yours to take! She had a life – it’s like that-that thing about how you shouldn’t pick up and move a snail, because you don’t know where it’s going.”

“Oi!” Zepheera protested. She’d been meaning to interrupt the humans’ arguing, but John Watson had been doing well on making her points for her up until that last addition. When he turned in reaction to her shout, he nearly flinched at the scathing indignation she shot his way.

“Sorry, no, I didn’t mean that you’re like–”

“‘Like’, she’s not  _like_  anything, certainly not a snail,” interrupted Sherlock as he strode across the kitchen toward Zepheera. “She’s not even like  _herself_ , if there’s even a self to be like.”

He dropped back into the chair still sitting by the counter where four-and-a-half inch tall Zepheera stood, leaning forward with his fingers steepled just under his chin. She took a couple wary steps back from his sudden proximity, enough for her to feel like she wasn’t looking straight up into those nebulaic eyes of his.

“I’ve always found the human mind problematic. So many emotions and concerns, not always simple to piece together, not for me anyways. I can, however, know a person’s entire life after  _seconds_  of observing them with near complete accuracy, but  _you_. Setting aside that scientifically you shouldn’t be able to function as highly as you do at this size, you are positively  _full_  of contradictions. Everything about you clashes with the logic of something else, and I demand an explanation.”

“Sherlock,” John warned. He was ready to tear the detective a new one for continuing to treat Zepheera as a specimen. The one thing stopping him was Zepheera herself raising a hand to stop him.

“It’s okay, John,” she assured, to his confusion and Sherlock’s poorly hidden amusement. The black-haired human’s smirk was as infectious as it was unsettling, Zepheera found as she bit back a grin of her own. She pursed her lips and addressed Sherlock. “Please, enlighten me about these contradictions. What have you observed?”

“Here we go…” muttered John, leaning on the fridge with crossed arms.

“Your clothes were the biggest tip-off,” Sherlock began, his cool gaze jumping up and down Zepheera’s form with each observation. “Trousers and vest hand-made, but your long-sleeve looks factory-made and somehow shrunk down, unless you’ve got a tiny clothes maker hidden around somewhere which I highly doubt. Your boots, as well, are manufactured, but you’ve altered them to look plainer.

“You appear quite young, but your eyes, they tell a different story. And that’s saying nothing about their deep violet hue, but that’s irrelevant to your contradictions. Point being, they’re much older than the rest of you. Exactly how much older is hard to pinpoint, the biggest clue being, of course, your vest. You’ve stripped down and woven together several candy wrappers, easy enough for someone your size to procure. One of them is different, a particular style that would have been in circulation in the 80’s and 90’s. Now, it could be that the material was simply passed down by an elder, or even the vest itself, but not likely enough since the rest are modern sweets and the vest fits you so snugly and hasn’t been altered even once. You made it recently, no more than nine or ten months ago if the wear is any indication.

“Additionally, you’re rather clean despite the fact that I found you outside and your lifestyle of living dependant on humans. Oh, it’s obvious,” Sherlock scoffed at Zepheera’s surprised expression. “Given your size and evident resourcefulness, it can only be assumed that you rely on humans for food and materials and shelter, probably within walls or under the floors or whatever nooks you can find outside. In either case, you shoulf be sporting some kind of dust or dirt residue, but you’re not. I would also expect a scavenger shorter than a pencil to carry a bag of some sort, perhaps climbing tools and a weapon, all of which you lack. Another contradiction. That, and your short hair, indicates a life of ease.  
Self-administered haircut, but such an even job along the back can’t be achieved on one’s own. Not without a series of mirrors or a friend…”

Sherlock trailed off, consumed with the implications of his last statement and observations overall. He’d suspected there could be more people her size despite the shrunken appearance of parts of her wardrobe, but he hadn’t considered the possibility of her having a companion. Maybe it was due to all his time spent around John, but something in him wrestled with the ethical dilemma before him  _on top_ of the scientific and logical dilemma of her very existence.

While he was silent and introspective, Zepheera looked down at herself and remarked on his observations. They were all correct, but she knew the reasons for her ‘contradictions’ that woulf clear up Sherlock’s confusions. The shrunken-looking pieces of her outfit were taken from the wardrobe in her room in the TARDIS, which  _had_ been downsized for her. She’d left her borrowing bag and tools behind because she’d  _thought_  she was in for a relaxing day with the Doctor. Now she was in some unknown flat with a pair of strange humans. Strange in every sense of the word.

“Impressive, I’ll admit,” she said st last, breaking both humans out of their swirling thoughts. “For a human, that’s quite extraordinary.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” John piped up, the corner of his mouth tugging up mirthfully.

Zepheera shrugged. “I’m sure Brainy here has already worked out that if I am to survive at this scale, I have to be fairly good at observations myself.”

_What am I doing?_

“Of course, Sherlock seethed. "Obviously.”

“Well then, what say we find out how much I can deduce about you two.”

John’s brow shot up and Sherlock frowned suspiciously. Meanwhile, Zepheera’s instincts were panicking.  _What am I saying? I don’t have time for these games, I have to get out of here! The longer I’m here, the higher the chances become that the Doctor will do something rash._

And yet here she was, challenging the human before her in his own field. Sherlock must have rubbed off on her more than she realized, because overriding every survival impulse she had was an increasing need to show off. She had to get it out of her system. And, she reasoned, she’d need to put herself even with Sherlock, or at least with a human being in his mind, before she could begin to negotiate her exit.

“If one of you could be kind enough to give me a lift to the other room, I’d be appreciative,” she smirked.

Sherlock stared her down for a moment, hesitant to take her bait. Eventually he gave up with a sigh. “John,” he ordered tersely as he stood from the chair and strode into the other room without either of them.

John blinked when he was left alone with Zepheera, who was looking expectantly up at him. “Erm. How-how should I…?” He still struggled with the idea of handling her, but he supposed if he had her permission it was alright.

“Actually…” she mused, peering down from the very edge of the counter at the dining chair. “I forgot about this. I might be able to see myself down after all.”

Before John could protest, she jumped off and landed expertly on the seat of the chair, repeating the action down to the floor. He hurried forward and leaned around the chair, half-expecting to see her limping body hobbling along. He was more than a little surprised to find himself staring down at the tiny woman practically unscathed, jogging across his floor. A jump like that would have messed up any human being, proportionally speaking. Whoever she was, this Zepheera was sturdier than she looked.

"Hmm, where to begin… I'll start with you, Sherlock. Only fair," Zepheera chirped at the towering form of the black-haired human. His heavy footsteps shook the floor underneath the four and a half inch tall woman, even from across the living room. Thankfully, Zepheera only felt faint tremors from her spot in the kitchen entrance.

She hummed thoughtfully as she turned in slow circles to take in the room. She, quite literally, had the floor, and knew well enough to make the most of it.

"Easy bits first: you've clearly got a head for science if all that junk in the kitchen is anything to go by. Doubt it's a career path, however, or else that stuff would be in your workplace. Hobby, then?"

She didn't expect an answer. Sherlock threw himself onto the couch at the far end of the room, propping his feet on the coffee table, and Zepheera finally felt comfortable enough to meander into the open space. Once she was in the middle of the carpet, she felt John walking around behind her (at least he had the decency to lighten his step a bit) until he sat down in one of two armchairs.

A glance at the black leather seat made Zepheera's brow lift. "Ooh, a violinist, I see," she commented with a glance at Sherlock. It stood to reason that the violin belonged to him, assuming that both men had claimed a chair for their own and the instrument was propped lazily against the one that wasn't John's. "Definitely interesting. Though it's really up to your skill level as to whether that's a pro or a con."

"For what?" asked John, leaning curiously over the chair's arm to watch her.

"Livability," she replied. "That's the main reason someone like me needs to be good at observations in the first place. We have to judge our environments quickly and accurately, make sure we're not gonna starve, get caught, or die within the week."

John nodded his understanding, but frowned when she turned away. It had to be assumed that surviving at such a small scale was tough, but he hadn't thought of something as simple as _choosing a house_ being considered dangerous.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Study of the Four](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10169288) by [nightmares06](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightmares06/pseuds/nightmares06), [The_Raconteur_24601](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Raconteur_24601/pseuds/The_Raconteur_24601)




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